Air and Darkness, Tree and Flame
by Lichaelle
Summary: The Winter and Summer Sidhe have fought for so long that none  remember how the war started. Despite their enmity, Arthur, heir to Winter,  and Eames, King of Summer, are determined to end the war, even if they must  marry to do so. A fantasy AU.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur, Prince of the Winter Sidhe, Lord of Air and Darkness, and Ruler of Tor Hibernis, woke with a start to a knife prick at his throat.

So this is how it ended. Barely a month from being crowned he was going to die in his own bed at the hands of some nameless assassin. He sighed. He wasn't ready to die.

"Don't move," the man whispered. "you'd bleed out long before your guards would reach you."

Arthur frowned. Any competent cutthroat would've killed him and been done with it. "If you want me to beg, you'll be disappointed."

The man laughed and pulled back his hood. "I'd hardly expect that of you, love. Your reputation as a stone cold bastard precedes you."

Arthur froze. Fear, real fear, shot through his veins like ice. "As does yours," he whispered. How was this possible? Arthur's room was at the center of Tor Hibernis; at the heart of Winter's power.

King Eames, ruler of the Summerlands, stared down at him with unreadable eyes. "Arthur, darling. Tell me something, I've been wondering. Is it true you told your father that the attack on Tor Aestas was foolish?

Phantom pains of his past anger and loss surfaced briefly. So that's what this was, Eames only wanted to rub in painful memories. Let him, then. Arthur wasn't going let a summer demon see his pain. "It was. Your soldiers gutted the King of Winter like a common criminal and mounted his head on a spike. My people would never consent to a treaty now." He shrugged like it hadn't bothered him then; wasn't still agony to remember now.

Eames tilted his head as if killing people hardly mattered to him. "But you wanted peace?"

Arthur flushed with anger. Of all the people to ask him that. "You bloody fool. Of course I wanted peace."

Eames studied Arthur intently. "How far would you go for it?"

Arthur closed his eyes. He thought of his family, dead from war. He thought of all the beggars missing limbs in the city streets, and all the sad eyed children with missing fathers. "Anything," he whispered.

Eames nodded as if Arthur had passed some test. "And what if I told you there was a way?"

"Why should I trust you?"

Eames leaned down and grazed the tip of Arthur's ear with his lips. His breath was hot and smelled of summer spices and ocean breezes. Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Because I know a way. To end it. All I need is your trust."

To trust a summer demon; it was unthinkable, revolting. Arthur scoffed when he realized what the man was suggesting. "I'm not going to surrender and watch my people become slaves."

Eames blinked like the idea hadn't even occurred to him, then chuckled. "You think quite badly of me, darling."

Icy rage exploded in Arthur's chest. This man had killed hundreds of children, and if the reports were accurate, laughed as he'd done it. "You have no right," he snarled. "No right at all, to call me that. I'll kill you and paint the walls of the Tor with your entrails-"

Eames adjusted the knife slightly; a small drop of blood welled up along the edge and Arthur fell silent. "They told me you were too angry'" Eames commented casually. "That you'd die before agreeing to treat with us. But I didn't listen because I thought- hoped really, that they were wrong."

Arthur bared his teeth. "Killing a man's family will do that."

"Your father marched an army into my capital on our holiest holiday, and began indiscriminately slaughtering civilians. Of course I killed him."

Arthur closed his eyes and remembered the day on midsummer it had happened. He'd argued that Eames would be too strong on Midsummer, but his father had laughed. Eames would be drunk, he'd said. He would die with a courtesan in one hand, a wineglass in the other, and surprise on his face. There would be peace.

But on the night of the attack, Arthur had seen summer lightning blossom across the sky in angry lines, like retribution, like judgment, and he had known. He was already planning the funerary arrangements with numb, mechanical motions when the news of the King's death had come the next morning.

Eames sighed, bringing Arthur back to the present. "We've both lost people. And I'm sorry for that. But if you would just forgot about the past and trust me, we could save so many lives."

Arthur willed the anger and pain in his heart into smoothness, like the surface of an icy lake. "What then, would you have me do?"

All the amusement and flippancy left Eames in the blink of an eye and he suddenly looked tired and sad. Arthur blinked. Perhaps he really did want peace. Perhaps he really knew a way to-

"Marry me," Eames said.

It was like being hit over the head with a bludgeon. "What?" he asked weakly.

Eames smiled almost tenderly at him and sprang back from the bed, pocketing his knife in the process. "Think it over," he called as he left the room. " I'll be back later for your answer."

After Eames slipped away silently, Arthur rose from his bed and went to sit on his balcony. In the far distance, he could make out the glittering golden lights of Tor Aestas, in stark contrast to his own castle, which glowed silver in the moonlight.

The King of the Summer Sidhe, the Lord of Tree and Flame, had just asked Arthur to marry him. He felt hysterical laughter bubble from his lips. It was ridiculous. Eames's people didn't tell the truth; they were liars, blood thirsty backstabbers who danced in the entrails of their victims and raped the survivors with abandon. He shivered. All his life he'd heard of their depravities and their king, he'd heard, was the worst.

But Eames hadn't seemed like a demon. He'd looked like a man, and a… surprisingly attractive one at that. Arthur frowned and absentmindedly painted frost on the bench next to him, letting the icy patterns soothe him. Arthur could almost relate to the weariness he'd shown when he talked of his dead subjects.

So many dead. Arthur closed his eyes. If there was a chance, even the slightest chance that Eames's plan might work, he owed it to his people to at least consider it.

His mind made up, he padded back inside, staring over his shoulder at the distant Summerlands for a moment before he shut the door. Now, the only problem would be convincing his regent that he was not, in fact, insane.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, Arthur silently conceded that it was easier said than done. He glanced at the walls of the regent's office, hoping they were strong enough that Cobb's shouting hadn't woken up every inhabitant of the Tor by now.<p>

"This is madness, and you know it!" Cobb shouted. The regent punched the wall in controlled fury then spun around to glare at Arthur.

Arthur shifted in his chair and ignored a twinge of resentment at being treated like a disobedient child. He was almost twenty; he would be king in his own right in less than a year. But Cobb had cared for him all his life. It wouldn't do to respond heatedly anyway; Cobb would only think him childish. "He seemed serious enough," he offered.

Cobb swore. "Of course he seemed serious, he's the bloody Summer King. He's a treacherous snake; he can appear to be anything he wants. You're lucky to be alive."

"He had me completely at his mercy, and he didn't kill me."

"This time. And he wouldn't kill you, he wants Winter subjugated at his feet, your people broken under his heel, your body chained up in his bed-"

"That's enough," he bit out, a bit too sharply. "Do not forgot whom you are addressing."

Cobb rolled his eyes and held his hands out in a placating gesture. "I meant no disrespect. But swear to me you won't engage him again. If he tries anything, anything at all, promise me you'll call your guards."

Arthur eyed Eames the next night and sighed. "My regent ordered me not to speak to you."

Eames snorted. They were sitting in chairs like civilized people this time, and Eames had magnanimously kept his knife sheathed. "Is he your regent or your nursemaid?"

Arthur gritted his teeth. "He's trying to protect me from what he perceives to be an incredibly dangerous threat."

"And you don't perceive me as such?"

Arthur studied Eames, not quite sure how to respond, lest he let his very real fear show. "Any man with such power can be a threat," he replied carefully.

"I'm not a threat to you, Arthur."

Arthur had no idea how to respond to that. They sat in silence for a moment. "Have you ever heard of Oberon?" Eames asked suddenly. "Or Mab, or Titania?"

Arthur shrugged. "They're myths and legends."

Eames shook his head. "They were real. And they each ruled both Winter and Summer as one. It's possible."

Arthur closed his eyes and let himself imagine a world like Eames described. The two courts, coexisting in peace. It was an achingly sweet dream. Arthur knew, in that instant, that he would do anything to make it a reality. Even sell his body to a summer demon. Anything. "So you want to marry me."

Eames smiled and reached over to rest a hand on his knee, making Arthur shiver slightly. "It's the only way our people would accept a treaty. It would be a marriage of equals; I wouldn't try to take away any of your power and I trust you'd do likewise. I won't pretend that it would be easy, but it would show we were serious about peace; give our people an example to follow."

Eames's hand was feverishly hot on his leg. He'd heard that Summer blood ran hotter than that of his own people, but he'd never been this close to one before. The heat was making it difficult for him to think. Every nerve screamed that the creature before him was foreign, wrong, dangerous.

He held his ground. Eames was right; if he couldn't sit calmly now, how could he expect his people to be peaceful? That was the root of it. He had to set an example. As a ruler, his own wants were unimportant. Duty first, as his father had always told him. He took a deep breath. "Then I accept." He was proud of how little his voice shook.

Eames smirked and he raised his hand to caress Arthur's cheek. "Brilliant, Love."

Arthur jerked away from the touch like it burned. "To make this clear, Eames. I will go through with this for my people's sake, and I will do my best to see that the peace keeps." His eyes blazed with anger. "But you killed my father and I am not, and will never be, your _Love_."

Eames didn't move his hand from Arthur's face. "Of course, Arthur."

* * *

><p>In the early morning, Arthur slipped from his rooms and padded through the silent halls of the palace to his throne room. It was dazzling; the light filtered through the frost on the windows and spun golden patterns on the floor, flickering across the carpet like the ghosts of dancers, reminders of an age when there had been time for dancing.<p>

Arthur barely noticed the beauty. He sat down on the floor with a sigh, staring at the portrait of his father that hung on the wall intently, as if it might have answers.

"I still think this is crazy."

Arthur looked up to see Cobb enter. He still wore his night robes, and his bloodshot eyes belied a long night spent sleepless. Arthur gave him a small smile, though his heart wasn't in it. He doubted himself too much at the moment; listening to Cobb rage about his idiocy was not going to be helpful. "Perhaps it is crazy. But I have to try."

Cobb sat down next to him with a grunt. "Your father, or Mal, or any of the other's we've lost, wouldn't want you to do this for them. Your people wouldn't ask this of you-"

"It doesn't matter what they ask, it matters what they need. They need peace, Uncle. And I can give it to them."

Cobb put his head in his hands. "I've watched over you since you were a child, Arthur, and the thought of you as a helpless catamite in that bastard's bed-"

Arthur patted Cobb's shoulder with a calm he didn't feel. "It won't come to that."

In truth he had no idea what would happen in that regard, but he knew, with an icy certainty in the pit of his stomach, that if Eames demanded it he'd concede before letting the fighting continue.

Cobb smiled sadly. "So stubborn. Like your father. I suppose you really mean to go through with this?"

Arthur nodded.

"Are you going to tell Duke Nash?"

Arthur winced. Nash had nothing to do with this. "He'll find out eventually."

Cobb eyed him. "You don't think perhaps he should hear it from you?"

Arthur shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Why would he need to hear any sooner than anyone else?"

"No reason, I suppose."

"Well then."

"Well then," Cobb repeated with a resigned sigh. "We need to begin making plans. I'll draw up an official speech for you. I can have it ready by tomorrow afternoon. If you can have Eames send his secretaries over as a show of good faith, they can begin working with ours to plan the legalities. And we need to figure out where your wedding is going to be." Cobb paused, and stared at Arthur like he wanted to hug him. "I love you Arthur, but you're a grown man now. If this is what to want, I'll do my best to help you."

Arthur nodded, doing his best to ignore the lump in his throat.

* * *

><p>The preparations took off like a sudden storm in the days that followed. Summer's delegation, headed by Eames's sister Ariadne, arrived the next evening. They promptly began doing whatever they could to unnerve the staid Winter courtiers, following Ariadne's example when she took one look at Cobb and began kissing his jaw enthusiastically.<p>

"Ari's very passionate about forging a lasting peace," Eames said dryly when Arthur mentioned it to him later.

Meanwhile, Arthur's castellan had almost had an apoplectic fit when he walked into a spate of drunken debauchery in the royal ice gardens, and he'd heard scandalized murmurs about how the Summer sidhe dared to go about holding hands in broad daylight.

Still, Arthur had to admit they worked hard when they put their minds to it. A treaty was ready for signing in less than a week, and the marriage preparation was almost finished. Or so he'd heard. Arthur had tried to help, but after being shooed out of conference rooms by his staff he finally decided to leave it in their more than capable hands. He limited his involvement to giving a speech about peace and tolerance that was frankly much more optimistic than practical, then kept to the castle. Too many of his subjects were upset; he didn't want the city's banshees starting riots at the sight of his face. Of course, staying indoors had it's problems too. Namely, Eames.

"Hello Darling,"

Arthur stiffened as he felt thick arms encircle him and hot breath ghost across the skin of his neck. "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.

Eames laughed. It was booming and carefree; Arthur almost asked how a leader in wartime could ever manage to sound so untroubled. "Oh, there are _lots_ of things you could help me with, pet," he murmured behind Arthur's ear.

Arthur gritted his teeth. This was why he couldn't stand Eames. Any combination of syllables, no matter how inane, managed to come out of the man's mouth as innuendo. "If there's nothing specific, I'd prefer if you disengaged yourself. I wouldn't want to unnerve any of the servants."

Eames pulled back, not looking sorry in the least. "Be lucky we're spending the winter in your castle then. In mine, engaged couples greet each other with kisses."

"Oh," Arthur said faintly.

"Interested in bridging the cultural divide?" Eames asked with a smirk.

Arthur bit his lip. He thought Eames was joking, but- "I wouldn't want to, um, alienate your people," he said, staring at the floor. "If you think they'd be more supportive of the treaty if I…"

He faltered. In truth, public displays of emotion were taboo in all of the Winterlands, but especially in the court. He'd had lovers before of course; he wasn't a child by any means. All the same, he'd never kissed anyone in public before. It just wasn't done.

"Arthur," Eames said, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh. "I'm their king. They'll do as I tell them to, regardless of whether you kiss me or not." He frowned.

Arthur wondered if he was thinking fondly of his own court and cursing fate for giving him an untouchable ice prince instead of some sensuous summer nymph. "But-"

Eames patted his shoulder lightly. "Truly, don't worry about it." He smirked. "Though I am going to kiss you at the wedding. Your regent was kind enough to inform me that it would be perfectly acceptable to do so. Though he did turn an odd shade of red when I asked him."

"Please don't give my regent a heart attack. And it's a wedding; we're expected to kiss."

Eames favored him with a sparkling grin. "And you're quite sure you don't mind?"

Arthur scoffed. "I think I can handle it."


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't until the day of the wedding that Arthur began to wonder if he could, indeed, handle it. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Arthur told himself very adamantly that he was not nervous. Not at all. There was no way this could go wrong. Unless Eames forgot the vows, or one of the summer courtiers was secretly an assassin, or perhaps a mob of angry winter ogres were preparing to storm the keep in the middle of the ceremony.

Arthur shook his head and smoothed back his hair, trying to concentrate on his appearance instead. He wore white lambskin leggings that fit him like a second skin, with leather boots to match. His tunic was velvet of deep charcoal-blue, embroidered with silver thread. Rubies and sapphires winked from the hem, and his handmaids had woven more gems into his hair. Over his shoulder he slung a heavy cape of white ermine, the fur as smooth and even as a fresh snowfall.

Finally, he placed a silver circlet atop his head and strode from his rooms with a determination quite at odds with the hammering in his chest. As he walked through the halls of the Tor he looked resolutely ahead, trying to ignore the expressions of the men and women he passed. Some looked angry, like he had betrayed them. Others looked sick, like he was a naïve child sacrificing himself in a gambit that would never work.

Arthur gritted his teeth. This was going to work; it had to. He wouldn't let it fail. It was all going to be okay, alright, nothing was going to go horribly, disastrously wrong-

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he collided with someone going the other way, sending them both sprawling.

"I apologize…" Arthur trailed off when he looked up and saw who the other man was. Oh god. Arthur licked his lips. If he had known that Eames had a body like this when he'd agreed to the wedding he might have had second thoughts. Not because said body was unpleasant. Far from it. His shirt was transparent gold silk, and beneath the fabric Arthur could make out broad muscles covered with hundreds of intricate henna drawings. His cape was made of riotous strands in a million different shades of orange and green, and his pants looked to be of emerald snakeskin and were much to tight to be legal by any means. Arthur swallowed. Fuck. He wanted to jump on top of the man and lick his skin, then tear him out of those hideous pants and… do things to him.

A traitorous part of his mind suggested that it would be a completely plausible course of action. They were getting married, after all. Arthur shook his head. Their union was about bringing peace, it could never be anything more than that. Squaring his shoulders and banishing his inappropriate thoughts, Arthur pulled Eames up.

Eames meanwhile, was staring at him with wide eyes. "Arthur," he finally said. "You're looking nice." He licked his lips; Arthur tried not to zero in on the pink tip of his tongue.

"Likewise?"

Eames made an odd noise, somewhere between a cough and a groan.

"Regretting this already?"

Eames shook his head. "Just ah… unused to your hair like that."

Arthur resisted the urge to fiddle with the jeweled braids. "It's traditional. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mock my people's customs-"

Eames reached out and gently traced Arthur's cheekbone. "They're lovely. You look fine. Calm down."

Arthur managed a shaky smile, doing his very best not to let the feel of Eames's hot fingers affect him. Cultural differences, he had to remember that. "As do you."

They stood in silence for a moment. Finally, Arthur coughed. "Eames, your hand…"

Eames jerked his fingers away from Arthur's face quickly, like Arthur was the one with burning skin. "Sorry about that. Ah, shall we?"

Arthur stared at the proffered arm. The arm of his soon-to-be husband, he screamed hysterically at himself. What was he doing? What had possessed him to- he caught Eames's gaze. This was necessary. He could do this.

Exhaling slowly, he took Eames's arm.

* * *

><p>"That went well," Eames commented as he took off his cloak and slung it over the back of his chair. Arthur made a noncommittal sound and huddled into a ball on the bed.<p>

It had gone well, as well as something like this could be expected. There had been glares and mutterings from both sides, but no one had tried to kill each other yet, at the very least. On the other hand, it had been a wedding, and weddings meant kissing.

The fucking kiss. He'd intellectually known that there would be one, but he'd always imagined it would be like the ones at proper, winter weddings. A slight, chaste kiss on the lips, and that would be all.

Apparently the summer sidhe kissed differently. Eames mouth was an all-consuming furnace. Arthur shivered and remembered the heat, the way Eames had nibbled at his lips until Arthur gasped from the sensation of it. Encircled in the tight embrace of Eames's arms, Arthur hadn't cared that half his court was gasping like fish, or that Cobb was squinting with enough force that he might've injured himself.

"Arthur?"

Arthur jumped guiltily, hoping it wasn't obvious what he'd been thinking about. "Yes?"

Eames bit his lip. "Well, I don't know what the custom is in your lands, but in mine, newlyweds give each other gifts."

"I didn't know," Arthur said, peering at the bundle in Eames's hands with surprise. He felt vaguely guilty; in truth, it was a common custom in the Winter Court as well. Somehow Arthur had never considered getting anything for Eames. He hadn't thought of the marriage as real, perhaps that was it. It was a facade, a child's game of make-believe, and only now was he realizing that it wasn't. They were married. For life. Arthur tried not to let any panic show on his face.

Eames was gently unwrapping the bundle, oblivious to Arthur's turmoil. "I wasn't sure if you would like it but…" he trailed off, and pulled the rest of the cloth away in silence. A slow glow filled the room and Arthur stared, mesmerized.

Resting in his hands was a thick glass jar, unmarked by etchings or paint. It tended towards a faint green in coloring, marking it subtly as a thing of Summer. Arthur would've passed by it in any marketplace; Winter sidhe were renowned for their crystalline glasswork that refracted rainbows in the sun and glittered like white diamonds in the moonlight. It was the jar's contents that caught his breath. A hundred tiny lights winked back, glowing softly golden. They drifted in lazy spirals, seemingly blown by some unseen summer wind.

"Royal Fire beetles. They're enchanted. I know they don't fit your color scheme, but…"

Arthur felt a lump form in his throat. How could Eames have known that his mother used to light a candle in an ice jar and leave it for him back when he was young enough to be afraid of the dark. He'd rejected any and all lamps the servants tried to put in his rooms after she died, but now… took the jar carefully and placed it on the table by the bed. "They're beautiful. Thank you." Turning around, he looked Eames in the face for the first time since the ceremony. He was beautiful in the glow of the insects; his skin gleamed amber and his eyes shone like sweet summer wine. His eyes were open, unguarded, and brimming with something Arthur couldn't identify.

He suddenly realized there was something he wanted, needed, to do. "I don't have a gift," he whispered. "But perhaps you'd accept this instead." He walked slowly up to Eames and cupped his chin, taking a moment to steel his resolve before drawing him down into a kiss. He brushed his lips over the corner of Eames's mouth hesitantly, hoping he was doing it right.

Eames stood frozen for a minute, before pressing himself against Arthur and kissing him back with a ferocity that almost burned. Arthur found himself opening his mouth for Eames with desperation. Eames took each everything Arthur gave him mercilessly, like a general in battle. Swearing under his breath, he pushed Arthur's back against the wall with one hand and cradled his head with the other. Moving his head away from Arthur's neck, he began to suck at the line of Arthur's jaw.

Arthur did his best to keep his composure and avoid melting into a compliant puddle at the insistent touches of Eames's mouth. His scent, a heady pulse of tangerines and cinnamon in the air, made Arthur lightheaded. He whimpered as Eames's tongue licked over a particularly sensitive patch of skin, and scrabbled at Eames's back with his hands.

One of Eames's hands drifted lower, slithering beneath his shirt and stroking his chest with serpentine motions. "Fuck, Arthur," Eames moaned. "I want- I want-"

Arthur Arched into his touch, too far gone to care about propriety or appearances or anything but Eames's skin, hot and sweaty, against his own. "You can have-whatever you want. Take it-"

Eames pulled away suddenly, his eyes wide and his breathing heavy. Arthur almost cried out at the loss of sensation, but stopped when he saw Eames's face. What he saw made him cringe. Disgust. Horror. In the blink of an eye it was gone, leaving a blank mask of indifference behind. It didn't matter. Arthur had seen.

"Thank you, Arthur." Eames mouth twisted and he looked away. "But… that's really not necessary." He gave a smile that echoed his earlier look of revulsion, and retreated to his side of the bed. "Goodnight."

Arthur stared as Eames burrowed under the blankets, his back facing Arthur. The bitterness of rejection burned in his throat. He could envision Eames's thoughts perfectly, could almost pinpoint the moment in which Eames had realized he was kissing an enemy. The moment he'd realized the pathetic creature pressed against him was a Winterling.

Arthur pressed his head into his hands. For a moment, it had almost seemed like the marriage could have been more than a charade. Eames had kissed him and it hadn't felt like a game. It had felt real. Or perhaps he'd just wanted it to feel real.

Listening to Eames's breathing even out, Arthur sighed. It didn't matter what he wanted. Eames hadn't wanted him, and he couldn't change that. He looked across the room at the faint glow of the fireflies, and then let his eyes close, heavy with resignation. Eames had brought him peace, the most precious gift of all. The least Arthur could do in return was respect that Eames didn't want anything more from him. Not knowing what else to do, Arthur moved to his own side of the bed and laid down, pulling the blankets over himself with stiff, jerky motions. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to sleep.

* * *

><p>iThanks so much for reading this; I'm so glad that people are enjoying it! I forgot to mention in the last chapter, but the story was written in response to a prompt asking for a HawksongInception fusion. So elements of the plot do come from Hawksong, but it's different enough that I didn't think it warranted being filed as a crossover. Obviously, all such ideas and characters belong to their respective creators, etc. /i


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Arthur's fervent prayers, Eames remained respectfully cool to him in the weeks leading up to Arthur's coronation. Eames would open doors for him, talk politely at dinner, and laugh at his jokes. But there was always an unseen reserve that cloaked the air about him like river fog. He was careful not to touch Arthur, or look him in the eyes.

"Arthur, this isn't right," his uncle said finally, on the afternoon before his twentieth birthday. "You've been acting sullen for weeks. You barely talk to anyone. I don't know what the bastard's doing to you, but we can't sit back and watch this anymore."

Arthur glanced up from the papers sprawled in front of him and blinked. A throng of advisers and clerks looked back at him with worried expressions.

He sighed. How could he ever explain that the problem was how Eames wasn't doing anything? Yes, he'd been a model gentleman. But they still slept in the same bed, and it was driving Arthur to distraction. Eames was gorgeous. He was mind meltingly gorgeous, and he slept naked. Arthur was used to having what he wanted. Being confronted with Eames's smooth skin, feeling his feverish heat every night mere inches away, was maddening. He barely got any sleep any more.

But Arthur wasn't going to ruin the treaty by trying to make Eames do anything he obviously didn't want.

He managed a smile for his ministers. "Haven't been feeling too well lately. I apologize if it's causing any trouble." He gathered his papers and quickly left the room. Hoping that a walk would calm him down he headed off towards the gardens.

As Arthur paused on a balcony overlooking the grounds, he felt a hand rest gently on his shoulder. Of course Cobb wouldn't just let him run off. He turned around with a glib reassurance on the tip of his tongue, but stopped when he saw who the hand belonged to. Not Cobb. Worse.

Duke Nash stared back at him. "Arthur."

Arthur flinched. They'd been boys together during earlier, sweeter days, before the war had ruined everything. Nash had been his most persistent suitor ever since he'd told his father he'd prefer a male consort. But that was before. Before his father and mother died, before he'd had to put aside indulgences like romance and concentrate on running his country. Before Eames. Before his life had turned into the unpredictable maelstrom it was now.

He'd never told Nash about the Eames, he realized. Nash had been gone for months putting down a border insurrection in the western provinces. Judging from his face, it was possible Nash hadn't even known about the marriage until he'd seen the green and orange banner of the Summerlands waving above the castle's ramparts.

"You've just returned to the Tor today, then?" he asked, trying desperately to keep his voice stable.

Nash nodded. "For your coronation."

The silence stretched.

"I suppose… this can't have been easy."

He'd thought their courting had been purely political. Drinking in the pain scrawled across Nash's face, he conceded that he might have miscalculated a bit.

"Arthur," Nash bit out. "What the fuck were you thinking?"  
>Arthur leaned back against the balcony's railing, away from Nash. "I know it's a shock but-"<p>

"That man killed your father," Nash hissed. "What would he say, if he knew you were letting his murderer fuck you?"

Arthur clamped down on the guilt writhing in his stomach. "There's peace-"

"Are you really that stupid? Whenever it's convenient he'll slip hemlock in your wine."

"Eames wouldn't do that." As soon as the words left his mouth, Arthur regretted them.

Nash's eyes widened. "He's ensnared you."

"No, I-"

"He must've. The Arthur I knew would never have done this."  
>Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Then you couldn't have known me very well. I'd do anything for peace. I'd die for it. I'd let Eames do whatever he wanted to me-"<p>

Nash darted closer and embraced him fiercely, wrapping his arms around the back of Arthur's head. "Don't you worry, I'll fix this," he whispered. "I'll kill him."

And suddenly Nash's lips caught his own and they were kissing, hot and desperate like he'd been craving for weeks now. But at the same time, wrong. Nash's mouth wasn't a burning furnace; his embrace wasn't iron-steady and all consuming. Quite simply, Nash wasn't Eames. Out of weakness Arthur let the kiss go on a moment longer, but then wrenched his head back.

"Go," he said, shoving Nash off him.

Nash looked back with wide eyes. "Arthur-"

"You dare disobey your prince?" Arthur snarled. "Go."

Nash hesitated and then stumbled back into the castle, leaving Arthur mercifully alone on the wind swept balcony. He slid down onto the stone, his head in his hands. What in the name of Father Winter was he doing?

* * *

><p>Arthur stayed on the balcony well past dark, despite the biting wind. He halfheartedly tried to stop the gusts, but he wasn't yet king and the effort was too great to bother with.<p>

"Arthur? What's the matter?"

He looked up to see Lady Ariadne peering down at him. Sitting up straight, he managed a small smile. "I'm fine. Just felt like thinking for a bit."

She bit her lip. "Then I'd advise you to dismiss whoever handles your wardrobe because frankly, you look like shit."

Arthur winced. "Ladies shouldn't swear," he mumbled.

She rolled her eyes him. "This is about Eames, isn't it?"

"I can manage the intricacies of my own marriage without your help. Truly."

She scoffed and sat down next to him. "Except you really can't. Look, I don't know what's going on, or why you're both moping all the time."

He frowned. Both?

"But Arthur, if there's a problem, you need to talk to him." She smiled. "Despite the stories, he really can't read your mind. In fact, he's rather stupid about this sort of thing." She stood briskly and offered her hand to him. "In any case, tonight's your birthday and you should be at your own party."

Arthur hesitated for a moment and then took her hand. "Thanks," he whispered as they entered the great hall together.

She nodded and drifted towards one of the lower tables, shooing Arthur in the direction of the high table, and Eames.

The festival celebrating Arthur's ascension to the throne had begun a week prior. It was the final night, and the feast was in full swing. The hall had filled with a hundred ladies and lords, hailing from all over the Winterlands. They sought to outdo each other in raiment and gems; the effect produced was a riotous patchwork of icy silk and dusky satin, scattered with winking jewels that glittered in the candlelight.

Arthur waved to a few of the nobles as he made his way to the high table. If anyone noticed Arthur's rumpled clothes no one mentioned it.

He'd been waiting for this moment his entire life. Yet even with the inheritance of the winter mantle a mere six hours away, he found he couldn't dredge up enough excitement to do anything more than pretend to look interested.

He nodded at Eames as he sat down, who stood out from the snow nymphs and their pale attire by virtue of a crimson waistcoat over gleaming leather leggings.

Eames ignored him. Arthur frowned; it was unlike him not to say hello.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked, resting his hand on Eames's arm.  
>Eames stiffened, then pushed Arthur's hand off his sleeve like an unwelcome bug. "Quite well. I'd ask you not to touch me in public. I wouldn't want to offend anyone's sensibilities."<p>

Arthur jerked back, feeling as if he'd been stung by a wasp. Since when had Eames cared about propriety? "Are you absolutely sure you're feeling-"

"What I want to know," a belligerent voice cut in, "is why summer scum like you haven't been culled yet. We got your sister and your mother, but your people are like roaches. They just keep coming back."

Arthur looked at the noble sitting on the other side of Eames while viciously clamping down on a curse. He was going to disembowel whoever had put the seating chart together. He didn't care if it was meant to be a joke, willful malice, or simply ignorance. Who in their right mind had decided it would be a good idea to seat a very angry, very drunk Nash next to the King of Summer?

"You're Duke Nash of Connaught?" Eames's voice was mild, and for a moment Arthur dared to hope that things wouldn't escalate.

"Yes," Nash said, swigging his wine like a challenge as he did so.

"I see." Eames smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. "We've met once before, at the battle of Ceana's Crossing." He paused for emphasis and raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you remember? You lost a third of your land, and one of your brothers, I believe. Aorinn, was it?"

Any hope of civility flew out the window.

"I'll string your guts on a fiddle and make you dance as I play it," Nash shouted, pushing away from the table. He fumbled drunkenly for his sword.

"Oh no you will _not_," Arthur snarled.

Nash hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the sword hilt.

Still unnaturally calm, Eames shook his head. He drew a slim knife out of the folds of his waistcoat with fingers quick as lightning and flipped it from finger to finger.

Arthur felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and blanched as a thin scratching noise filled his ears. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nash freeze. "Eames."

Yet again, Eames ignored him. Of course.

"Eames," he persisted. "That's cold iron."

Arthur realized belatedly that the entire hall had fallen silent, save for the faint rasp of a banshee in the hall's shadowed recesses. A hundred pale faces were watching the scene at the high table unfold, flinty eyes fixated on the dagger in Eames's hand.

"Eames," he hissed. "Put the knife down."

Eames seemed to suddenly notice the hall's deathly silence. He glanced at Arthur for a half second, then let the knife clatter onto the table. The sound echoed through the hall until Cobb, who had been observing the debacle silently at Arthur's left, threw a napkin over it. The buzzing in Arthur's ears suddenly stopped, and he felt, rather than heard, the sigh of the Winter sidhe relaxing.

Eames stood abruptly. "I find I'm no longer hungry. Something about the company, perhaps." He strode out of the hall, without so much as a backwards glance at Arthur.

* * *

><p>As he stalked into their bedroom that night, Arthur decided he couldn't take it any longer. Eames was already in bed, pretending to sleep. Typical, Arthur thought with a curl of his lip. This had gone on long enough. "By Finvarra's cross, what madness possessed you?"<p>

Eames flicked an eye open but didn't sit up. "My sister was killed with a baby yet in her. My mother was impaled on an icicle while she begged for her life."

"But Duke Nash didn't-"

"I don't give a flying fuck who he is or what he did or didn't do. I will never stand idly by and listen to the deaths of my family be made light of. And before you mention it, your father's death was provoked."

Arthur gritted his teeth and narrowly managed to restrain himself from slapping Eames in the face. "So you threatened one of my highest ranking nobles with cold iron during a festival filled with civilians?"

Eames closed his eyes again. "Essentially."

Arthur was sick of this. He was sick of Eames glaring at him when he wasn't looking, and equally tired of Eames sneering at him whenever he tried to talk. It didn't help that he still had to watch Eames slide into bed next to him every night, muscles smooth like silk. "I don't know what your problem is," he said, "but I'm tired of it."

Eames rolled over to face him. "My problem," he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. He sat up in bed and narrowed his eyes. "I'd say if anyone has a problem, it would be you."

Arthur glared back at him. So Eames was going to try to make this his fault. Best of luck to him, Arthur thought savagely. Arthur hadn't been the one that had almost started a bloodbath over dinner. Arthur hadn't been ignoring Eames for the past month, and treating him like a distasteful bug when he did acknowledge his presence.

Even though he dimly knew he should've expected this from the start, he couldn't live with it any longer. "You're endangering the treaty," he bit out. "Half of Winter thinks you're manipulating me; the other half thinks you're insane."

Eames exploded. "I'm endangering the treaty? I've at least refrained from ravaging my nobles like a common whore!"

Arthur flinched, guilt clawing at his stomach. "I didn't…"

"Mean for me to see that, I'm sure." Eames narrowed his eyes. "I'm not a fool, Arthur."

Of all the times for Eames to pay attention to him, it had to be that one compromising moment on the balcony. It was stupid, it was unintentional, and it was entirely his fault. He should have known better. The kiss had been his mistake. Eames couldn't have realized that Arthur hadn't wanted it, couldn't be held responsible for making the wrong assumptions. He opened his mouth to explain himself, but Eames spoke first.

"So you're unable to go for a few weeks without finding a noble you can order to bed you. I knew you were a stone cold bastard when I agreed to this, but I never would've pegged you for a slut."

Arthur felt like he'd been stabbed in the gut. That was all he could take. Never mind what he'd done, he couldn't live with contempt and hatred raining down on him day in and day out. It was too much. "Do you think I wanted this?" he bit out. "Am I supposed to live like a celibate monk for the rest of my life, married to someone who killed my father, someone who's so disgusted by me he can't even look me in the fucking face?"

Eames suddenly seemed to realize he'd gone too far; that he'd pushed Arthur to a snapping point. His eyes widened and he moved to get out of the bed, but Arthur turned around and strode out of the room before he could say anything. He'd already been humiliated enough. He wasn't going to wait for Eames to laugh at him.

* * *

><p>Arthur had an icy temper, but it steadied quickly, leaving him feeling foolish and ashamed. He paced through the ice gardens, sticking to the back trails where he was less likely to bother trysting courtiers.<p>

Eames had called him a slut. Laughing softly, he smashed a carving of a swan and watching the ice shards fall into the snow. They twinkled back at him in the dark like black diamonds. Eames had called him a slut and quite frankly, he was right. Despite the hot summer blood in his veins, Eames hadn't been the one to kiss his noblemen at the first possible opportunity. Of course Eames was angry. He'd been defying his own nature for peace and Arthur had acted like none of it mattered.

But it did matter. Arthur would be king at the stroke of midnight, and he owed it to his people to keep the treaty in place. That meant disregarding a few words spoken in anger. In fact, he'd do better. Swallowing his pride, he walked purposefully out of the gardens while composing an apology in his head.

He hadn't gotten any further than Eames, I'm sorry, can we talk about this? when he found himself standing outside the double doors of the royal suite. He swallowed. Perhaps he should wait longer, spend more time thinking about what he truly needed to say- but no. Ice wouldn't melt if it hid from the sun, and his argument with Eames wasn't going to resolve itself unless he actually talked to him. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door with a forceful push.

"Eames, I-"

The room was empty and the candles were cold. As he peered about in the darkness, a paper propped up on Eames's pillow caught his eye. He smiled; it was easy to recognize the looping scrawl of Eames's handwriting, even from across the room. Perhaps it was an apology. Heart in his throat, he gingerly picked it up and began to read.__

_Arthur,  
>This isn't working. I don't know if this standard of behavior was your intention when you suggested this plan, but I can't do this anymore. Our people are too different; it was foolish to ever think we could bridge that gap. I am not against peace, but separation now seems more effective.<br>By the time you read this, I will already be in the Summerlands. Any pursuit past your own borders will be regarded by my men as an act of war, and dealt with accordingly.  
>King Eames d'Aestas IV<br>_

Something crumpled in Arthur's chest. Shock buzzed over his nerves, leaving in its wake churning horror that finally faded into a blank numbness. Everything, ruined. People were going to die, his people, Eames's people, all because of him. Distantly, he realized he should alert Cobb and the other ministers. Instead, he curled about the paper like a wounded animal and stared down at the floor. He'd failed. The war would continue. And he was never going to see Eames again.

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you all so much for your reviews; I really can't express how much they mean to me, haha. A lot of my fics are posted on anonymous memes before I clean them up here and people can be pretty mean in with the anon commenting. It's very encouraging when people tell me they do in fact like what I'm writing :D<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Back when she'd been alive, Arthur's mother had been fond of saying that everything looked better after resting. Blinking awake blearily, Arthur decided she must have been mistaken.

He sat up and winced as it all came rushing back to him. He should have known, he thought dully. Eames wasn't of Winter; even his skin felt wrong under Arthur's. But despite that, he'd really believed that they weren't that different. The softness in his eyes, the gentleness of his touch… Arthur had felt like… he shook his head. It didn't matter anymore.

Winter winds, how had he messed everything up so badly? He'd managed to alienate his people, marry a manipulative killer, and finally drive away said killer, ruining any chance of peace in the process. Arthur glanced at the note, crumpled and grey in the predawn light. Eames had said he wasn't against peace, but Arthur knew better. With Eames gone, the nobles would start clamoring for war again. They'd increase the guards on their lands, perhaps send a few groups out for 'reconnaissance,' and then the fighting would start up again.

He glanced out at the predawn light, realizing dully that the night had passed. He was king. The realization was empty and cold. He could command the snows and ice storms now, without Cobb's help. And the armies.

He grimaced, picking up the note again. At least he could send out patrols without having to explain to Cobb what had happened. How he'd failed. He glanced down at the note, etching the words condemning him into his memory like a punishing brand.  
><em><br>"I don't know if this standard of behavior was your intention when you suggested this plan, but I can't do this anymore." _

Arthur frowned suddenly.  
><em><br>"…your intention when you suggested this plan…"_

"…when you suggested this plan…"

Arthur had suggested nothing. Everything, from the shadowed beginning in Arthur's quarters to the wedding and beyond, had been suggested by Eames.

With shaking fingers, he experimentally called for a snowflake to rest in his palm. It appeared in the blink of an eye, a testament to his new power. He barely noticed.

"King Eames," he whispered. "find him."

The snowflake spun unevenly for a moment, then fluttered, almost hesitantly, to the bedroom window. Beyond it, Arthur could make out the mountain range that formed the northernmost edge of his realm, standing silently in the predawn light. North. Away from the Summerlands, away from Tor Aestas.

Arthur swore and dashed from the room. Something was horribly wrong.

* * *

><p>The reasonable thing to do would have been to gather a pack of trackers bonded to ice wolves and send them after Eames, with the enchanted snowflake as a guide.<p>

Arthur was not feeling very reasonable.

Bounding through the forest's snowdrifts, he reflected briefly that bringing a cloak might have been a good idea. The wind howled through the trees like a mourner in the throes of loss, and the snow fell so thickly that the sky was almost solid with it. He batted the clumps of snow away from his face as he ran, narrowly avoiding tree branches.

It took him longer than it should have to remember that he was now the king of Winter.

"Ventus, subsisto!" he screamed into the gale. The wind stopped abruptly, leaving an eerie bubble of calm, punctuated by silently drifting clumps of snow. The outline of the Northern Glacier jutted up against a muted green sky in the distance. Closer, Arthur could make out candlelight flickering between the trees. Narrowing his eyes, he stalked towards it, motes of ice floating in his wake.

He heard the voices long before he could make out the speakers.

"…and it's hardly murder. It's not our fault he can't handle a bit of ice."

A few chuckles echoed off the branches, though the sound was curiously muffled by the blanket of snow.

"If I die, the war will never end." Arthur's heart clenched; it was Eames. The edges of his words alternated between slurred and jagged, as if Eames was fighting for lucidity one second at a time.

Someone scoffed. "You never wanted peace. You would've killed him on a whim."

Arthur stiffened. He knew that voice.

"I'd never hurt to him."

"Quiet, filth." A thump, a sharp intake of breath. And again, laughter.

"K-killing me. It won't change that I-"

Two thumps, an aborted whimper.

"M-my, my. Jealous?" Eames rasped.

A wet crack rang out and Eames didn't speak again.

Arthur had heard enough. He stepped into the clearing, taking in the tableau around him with a frozen calm.

Someone had forged mottled layers of frost over Eames's limbs, trapping him in a snow bank. His linen trousers were soaked through and he wore no shirt. Arthur noted faintly that he'd stopped shivering and lay quiescent, his head tilted forward and his eyes closed. Around him stood six men, laughing and joking with each other. Arthur narrowed his eyes. He knew them all. Three were barons; two were earls. And the last, his boot pressing Eames's prone back into the snow, was Nash.

"What is going on?" Arthur asked quietly.

The nobles blanched and Nash whipped around like a child caught misbehaving. "He was plotting to murder you, Highness."

"I see." Arthur glanced over at Eames's still body. His lips were beginning to turn blue.

Arthur felt like he was floating, separated from everything but Eames's slowly cooling body. This was wrong, all wrong. Eames couldn't die. If he died, the treaty would die with him, and the armies would regroup the next day. More people would die, more innocents, Winterlings and Summerlings alike.

But it all paled when Arthur realized that if Eames died, he would never be able to apologize. He would never be able to feel the softness of Eames's fingers on his cheeks.

That was completely unacceptable.

Taking a deep breath, he willed his face smooth. "So. Let us speak truthfully. This is a coup?" he asked evenly.

Nash blinked and shook his head. "Of course not. We only seek to protect you."

Arthur smiled. From the way Nash blanched, it was not a pleasant smile by any means. To protect him. He was sure the nobles would be pleased to see him confined to a tower like some fairytale princess, powerless. Dimly aware of his emotions draining away like blood from a dying man, he looked up and rested his eyes on each man in the clearing. If he stared at Eames for a half second longer than anyone else, no one noticed. "I see," he whispered. "You wish to protect me. But you have forgotten something."

Nash smiled, still trying to come off as amicable. "What would that be, my Prince?"

"Today," he breathed, "is my birthday. I am not your prince. I am your King." And with that, Arthur raised his hands and let the full power of his birthright descend upon the clearing. The screams of the nobles were drowned out by the shrieks of a million razor-sharp slivers of ice.

* * *

><p>Arthur woke to warmth, light, and Cobb's scowling face peering down at him. He was in his bed, he realized, covered with down comforters. He felt fine, save for a few lingering aches in his fingers and neck. But something was wrong; if this was his bed, where was-<p>

"Eames," Arthur gasped, sitting up. "Is he-"

Cobb snorted. "Eames is fine. He woke up yesterday."

He'd thought the injuries would've been more serious than that. Arthur frowned and smoothed the blankets over his legs. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days." Cobb glared at him and shoved a crock of cinnamon porridge at Arthur as if it had personally offended him. "You can't just go gallivanting off in the middle of a blizzard and rip people to death with ice shards the second you inherit the winter mantle. Without telling anyone. In the middle of the night."

"Sorry about that," Arthur offered, hoping he sounded sincere.  
>"You're lucky Lady Ariadne saw you leave. Really, you couldn't have just stabbed them? One icicle each? Or better yet, asked some of your very competent guards to kill them for you?"<p>

Arthur wisely said nothing and took a bite of porridge instead.  
>Cobb threw up his hands in despair. "In any case, you can go visit Eames once you've finished eating. And please hurry. He's a terrible patient."<p>

Half an hour later, Arthur stood poised outside the royal suites, his forehead resting against the door in silent contemplation.

"I can help you open the it if you've forgotten how."

He jumped, smiling sheepishly when he saw it was only Ariadne. "I don't want to disturb him." He shivered at the memory of Eames's still body, blue lipped and pale in the snow. Eames seemed to be tighter, jerkier, in his presence. He didn't want to tax him while he was ill. That he was terrified of Eames's rejection had nothing to do with it, he told himself sternly.

Ariadne shrugged. "I suppose it's none of my business. He's been asking for you though. Won't sleep." She looked up at him innocently, her blue eyes wide and guileless. "I'd feel horrible if he got worse, wouldn't you?"

Arthur managed a smile. He didn't think he'd ever met someone quite so cheerfully manipulative. "I'll see him in a minute. If you think he wouldn't mind, of course."

Ariadne's smile somehow managed to widen. "I'm sure he wouldn't," she purred.

Hoping to change the subject, he turned to face her and fixed her with a steady gaze. "By the way. I have to wonder how you knew where Cobb sleeps. He told me you woke him when I was missing." He figured it was nothing and even if there was something going on, he doubted she would admit it. But one minute she spent making excuses was another minute away from Eames.

"Oh, that. We're getting married."

Arthur jerked away from the door. "You-what?" That was impossible. He mentally reviewed his talk with Cobb, trying to remember if he'd seemed different. Perhaps a bit happier, but that could just be in reaction to Arthur's not-death, he supposed. And Cobb couldn't keep secrets at all. "Does Cobb even know yet," he asked finally, trying not to smile.

She grinned back. "Not yet. I'm still working out the details. I want twelve ice swans carved- big ones, mind you, not pathetic goose-sized knock-offs. And we'll be importing nobles who actually know how to dance, none of this awkward swaying nonsense. I already talked with my handmaids about giving Cobb a few fire beetles, not that he'd know anything about the custom. But I thought it would be nice."

Arthur frowned. He thought to the jar in his room and bit his lip in concentration. "It's customary to give fire beetles to one's fiancé?" he asked, trying to remember if Eames had ever mentioned anything of the sort.

Ariadne gave him an odd look. "Not as such, no. It's from an old nursery rhyme. You give people different insects as gifts depending on how you feel about them." She screwed her eyes up and bit her lip in concentration. "I can't quite remember the beginning, but the last verse goes something like this."

_ "Three gleaming mantises for hatred to the end,  
>Five shining copper-snails for always-faithful friends,<br>Seven wings of dragon-glass for gratitude above,  
>And nine blazing firelings for everlasting love." <em>

She nodded to herself in satisfaction. "That's the old name for the beetles, firelings. The name comes from an old myth that says the fire god made them for the wind goddess to decorate her hair with and that's why they can fly."

Arthur smiled, trying hard not to think about the lump in his throat. Everlasting love. That didn't quite sound right. Perhaps Eames had simply been following his people's customs. Arthur knew plenty of people who refused to swear in Father Frost's name even though they didn't explicitly believe in him. "Is it a common tradition then?"

Ariadne shrugged, oblivious to Arthur's disquiet. "Not at court. So many of the marriages are arranged, and it's considered to be very gauche, giving fire beetles to someone you aren't in love with."

"Oh," Arthur said. Perhaps Eames had meant it ironically?

"If you're interested in the rest, you should ask Eames." She frowned, eying him like he was a puzzle to be solved. "It was his favorite nursery rhyme when he was little."

Arthur tried to picture Eames as a child, bright eyed and innocent. "I doubt he wants to talk to me about it." Or about anything.

Ariadne stared at him for a minute, then sighed. "Honestly," she muttered. Before he could respond, she yanked the bedroom door open and pushed him through. He turned indignantly, but before he could say anything the door cracked shut.

Arthur cringed and prayed it hadn't woken Eames. He was probably still sleeping; there was no way he'd be lucid enough for a conversation. Why, Arthur could just twist the doorknob a half-turn and push the door open gently, Eames would never even need to know-

"Arthur?"


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur spun around.

Eames sat on the far side of the bed, a citron dressing gown clinging like mist over his skin. He looked paler than Arthur would've liked, and ugly bruises darkened the skin around his wrists and the left side of his head. But Eames was awake, and even though Arthur hadn't wanted to talk with him, he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything but grateful.

"In a rush?" Eames said, quirking his lips.

Arthur realized belatedly that he was gripping the doorknob like a weapon. He took a deep breath and forced his hand to let it go. "Not as such, no." He tried for a smile; judging from Eames's hastily swallowed laughter it had come off more manic than jovial. "And yourself?"

Eames looked out the window at the glacier. "I'm fine. But..." He sighed. "We really need to talk."

Arthur could already see where this was going. It didn't matter that Eames hadn't actually written the note, the sentiments were true all the same. Eames wasn't comfortable here and he obviously wasn't safe either. He'd need to leave. It wouldn't be horrible though. It wouldn't. They could still keep the peace. That was the most important part. Arthur forced himself to swallow and nodded with what he hoped was royal dignity. "Of course. I understand."

"Arthur-" he began, and Arthur wondered how this would go. Would Eames condemn him for not being able to control his nobles? Or would he charge him with planning the entire plot himself?

"I am so, so sorry."

Arthur blinked, already preparing to graciously accept whatever he was accused of. "What?" he said weakly.

If Arthur didn't know better, he'd say Eames looked incredulous. "You've been knocked out for three days because you had to go rescue me."

"You don't need to apologize for that-"

"But I really, really do."

Arthur shook his head. How could Eames not see that this was all his fault? "I stormed off like a child. You were kidnapped. Ergo-"

"No one in their right mind would blame you for that. And it was cruel of me to make light of your people's losses. My mother would've forgiven Winter long ago." He sighed and stared off into the distance. "And it's not your fault your duke was insane. Nor is it my business if you…" he winced. "if you take lovers. Plenty of nobles do."

Arthur shook his head. "You wouldn't have done it," he argued.  
>"Kissed your duke? Flaming hells, of course not." Eames smiled wistfully out the window. "But that doesn't mean I don't want… things. Even if they're things I can't have."<p>

Arthur wondered who it was that could make Eames smile like that, and tried valiantly to stop jealousy from bubbling up in his throat. "Still, I'm sorry. I wronged you. You deserve better."

"I-? Gods no, you're the one who deserves better," Eames made an inarticulate noise and punched his pillow. "Arthur, you deserve someone so much better than me. Someone who doesn't make you flinch when he touches you; someone you can be happy with. You deserve to be happy."

Arthur stared at Eames like he'd grown another head. Eames had never seemed to care if he was happy or not. Why…?

Realization struck like sudden sunlight shearing brilliantly across smooth ice. The wistful looks. The almost frosty anger towards Nash. And the fire beetles, even now washing soft light across the walls. Father Frost, _ fuck. _

Maybe he was wrong. But he had to ask, had to know. "Eames," Arthur said slowly. "In the woods. You said you'd never hurt me."

Eames looked away sharply, his face a mask. "I want peace as much as you do."

That wasn't an answer. That wasn't an answer at all. "I know you do," Arthur said, his heartbeat picking up. "but- do you feel…" he took a shallow breath. "Obligated? Or do you feel…more. Than that."

The words hung in the silent air between them, and almost immediately Arthur regretted saying anything. Eames's silence was answer enough. He'd presumed. He shouldn't have said anything. Arthur had a stammering apology ready on his lips when Eames turned around to face him, his eyes shadowed and downturned.

Eames looked wrecked. Anguished, even. Arthur closed his mouth. It was not the look of someone who felt obligated. Not at all.

"I'm sorry," Eames finally whispered. "It's not something I can help. I'm sorry it makes you uncomfortable; If you want to annul the marriage we can. Just tell me what you want. Anything."

Arthur let out the breath he'd unconsciously been holding. Something beautifully warm unfolded in his chest.

He was generally a cautious person. Still, there were times deliberation was unwarranted. This was one of them. Throwing caution to the winds, he leaned in slowly, inch by torturous inch, finally grazing his husband's lips with a chaste kiss.

Eames jerked away violently, looking at him with wide eyes. His hands, Arthur dimly noted, were shaking. Their ragged breathing was the only sound in the room.

Arthur didn't dare to look Eames in the eye, too afraid of what he might see. Not letting himself think, he reached up to cup Eames's cheek with trembling fingers and slowly dragged his tongue across Eames's lower lip.

Eames snapped, his control shattering like ice on stone. With a growl, he surged up against Arthur, seizing his shoulders and yanking him back against the pillows. His hands roamed up and down Arthur's body with fierce desperation, as if he couldn't bear to let him go. His kisses were almost frantic, hot and wet and so _needy_that Arthur couldn't help but meet them with a desperation of his own, whining involuntarily as Eames raked fingers down his back.

The heat was everything he remembered, searing like a fiery brand against his skin, clinging to the air around them like fog.

Eames's hands were now vises on his hips, crushing their bodies together, and Eames's leg had insinuated itself between his own as their kisses had become more frantic. The sudden friction made Arthur arch off the bed. He moaned, clutching the fabric of Eames's robe helplessly. Father Frost, he needed more. He ached; the tension pooling in his stomach grew with each pass of Eames's tongue. He wanted Eames in him, wanted the heat of Summer to coat his skin and soak him with Eames's scent. "Please, I-"

The words broke the spell. "Arthur," Eames gasped, pulling away. His eyes were wide, colored with what could have been fear. "This isn't- you don't need to. Just because I- want you-"

Arthur stared at him, panting heavily. Father Frost, really?  
>Eames bravely forged on, his knuckles white. "I would never force- the treaty doesn't require-"<p>

Frost take it all. Arthur was sorely tempted to hit him. "I am going to say this slowly and clearly, and you're going to pay attention." Arthur said, as calmly as he could. "I do not give a flying fuck about the treaty right now. I do not want to talk about politics. I have ministers for that."

Eames tried to say something, but Arthur cut him off with a hand firmly placed over his mouth. He stared into Eames's eyes, heartened by what he saw there. Eames, it seemed to him, was finally letting himself hope. After all the pain they'd been through together, they both deserved this. A chance to tell the truth. A chance to finally tell Eames what he felt, what he wanted.

"I don't want to talk about politics," he repeated. "I want to be with you. I want you" he breathed, leaning closer, "just you, alone, in my bed. Unclothed, with your hands on my-"

Arthur abruptly felt himself being yanked onto the bed next to Eames, who then flipped him onto his back and rolled atop him. Looking up, he shivered at the heat in Eames's eyes.

"You talk too much," Eames murmured into his neck, punctuating each word with a faint catch of his teeth.

Arthur felt a wisp of need snake down his spine. "Then quiet me,"

"Y-your majesties?"

They glanced up to see one of the royal physicians standing by the door, looking like there were a million places he'd rather be. "K-king Eames should remain under observation-"

"Is anything in immediate danger of falling off?" Eames growled.

"No, but-"

"Is there any risk of hemorrhaging? Seizures? Irreparable brain damage?"  
>"I don't think-"<p>

"Then," Eames bit out. _"why the hell are you still here?"_

The man scurried out with faintly apologetic squeaks. Arthur turned to look back at Eames, biting his lip and feeling suddenly shy. The look of trepidation that had returned to Eames's face was more worrying than he would've liked to admit.

At length Eames sighed and turned to face him. "If we're going to… well. You know how I feel about you," he said with a depreciating chuckle. "I just… need to know. What you want from me. What I am to you."

"I… you're my husband." Arthur looked up, praying that Eames understood. "I want to be with you, married to you. In every sense of the word."

With a sharp intake of breath, Eames reached out to pull him closer before trailing his fingers down Arthur's neck and letting them rest against his chest. He was almost reverent, as if Arthur was some precious wonder that might shatter at the first touch.

"I'm not an ice sculpture, Eames. I'm not going to break," he said, trying to feel indignant but failing spectacularly.

Eames grinned, seemingly content to bask in Arthur's attention. "And what are you, then?"

"Your king. Or just yours, I suppose," Arthur said with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. "If you'd have me."

Eames laughed; his breath was warm like summer against Arthur's skin. "Just so you know, I'm going to kiss you now," he murmured.

"I suppose that's alright," Arthur whispered back.

When the kiss came there was no desperation in it, but neither was it hesitant.

The feel of Eames's lips over his own was enough to make Arthur shiver and clutch at the fabric of Eames's robe, tugging it forward slightly.

"Please," Arthur whispered, tilting his head up for more.

Eames pulled back slightly, looking down at Arthur's blown pupils and flushed skin with a faint grin and a blush of his own. "And what would my king want from me?"

"Give me everything."

And Eames did.

_Six Months Later_

Eames stood on the balcony of the Winter Palace and tried not to burst out laughing. "They're very… large," he finally said.

Ariadne pursed her lips, both hands thoughtfully resting on her stomach. "They do look a bit like mutated hydras, don't they."

"One headed hydras with definite swan characteristics?" he tried.

She shook her head, determined to face the truth head on. "The one on the left definitely has at least four heads." She shrugged, patting her rounded stomach with gentle fingers. "Still, I did want swans for the wedding, and it's the best they could do with the time limit."

She sighed. "Of course, I hardly think giving birth beforehand would've mattered, but Dom would start shrieking about bastards and running into things. So it's really all his fault that the swans are awful. And Phillipa's, of course."

Eames winced. "You are not naming my heir Phillipa. And don't blame the baby. If it's anyone's fault, it's yours."

"Is that so?"

"You couldn't have waited another three month before dragging the idiot into your bed-"

"-I don't see how my sleeping habits are any of your business, really."

Eames gritted his teeth. "They aren't anymore, now that my poor husband was finally able to sound-proof your rooms. I couldn't sleep for weeks, Ari." He narrowed his eyes. _"Weeks._"

Cobb ran by, shouting at a harried looking elf about seating arrangements. "Honestly. Your rooms are on the other side of the tor," Ariadne muttered as she smiled at her fiancé.

Eames could imagine the haunted expression on his face, the one he was certain the rest of the palace shared by now. "I_know_."

"Please. If you couldn't sleep, it was hardly because of me."

Eames followed her gaze across the garden, over the hectic army of wedding planners, ignoring the ivy boughs that some unlucky sprite had just set on fire and the minor altercation two sculptors were having with regard to one of the ice swan's fletching patterns.

There, in serious discussion with one of the florists, was Arthur. _His_Arthur, he would never get tired of reminding himself. "I suppose some of my sleeping troubles may have been his fault," Eames conceded.

Ari didn't seem inclined to press the point, though her smile was served as a reminder that she certainly could've, if she'd wanted to.

They stood in silence for a moment, brother and sister, surveying the chaos together.

"I wish Mother could've seen this," Ariadne finally whispered. "What you've done… I wouldn't have dreamed it possible. Not in ten thousand years." She turned back to face him, smiling even as her eyes filled with tears. "Eames, we're at peace. _Peace_," she repeated, the word a marvel and a wonder on her tongue.

Eames could only nod, his heart in his throat. He looked back over the chaos of the wedding preparations.

Cobb was screaming about placeholders, one of the gardeners may or may not have begun a brawl with the other, his sister's pregnancy broke every taboo the Winter court had, the burning ivy was beyond repair, and the twelve ice swans were absolutely hideous. None of it mattered. Not in the least.

Because beyond it all was Arthur. As Eames watched, he fiddled with his silver holly crown before noticing Eames's gaze. Their eyes met, and Eames felt himself falling in love all over again, like he seemed to every time his husband looked at him, slipped into their bed, or smiled, even.

"Oh, Ari," he whispered, moving to cradle her and her unborn child against him. The child that would join Summer and Winter into one, and rule them in the beautiful peace to come.

"My sweet Ari. We've won so much more than peace."


End file.
